Jon Davis's Blog

February 8, 2015

“Aargh,” says Joseph “Pegleg” Stewart, President of The Southeast Chapter of the International Pirates’ Association. “Johnny Depp. He’s a swine, I tell ya. And I tell ya true. Ain’t never fired a black powder pistol. Never swung, boots first, onto the deck of a rich man’s vessel. Not an ounce a pirate in that lad.” “Here, here,” shout the eight members of the IPA, clanking their flagons of ale loudly in assent. “Being a pirate’s a manly occupation,” chimes in Black Bart, the organization’s secretary and a champion climber and swinger of ropes. “Someone should tell Depp that it’s swashbuckling, not swishbuckling.” A roar of derisive laughter erupts from the small crowd gathered on the deck of the schooner anchored off Big Pine Key for the annual gathering of the IPA’s Southeest Chapter. On the deck, two young pirates grapple briefly until one tosses his adversary overboard. Pegleg Stewart eyes the water until the young pirate’s hat appears on the surface, followed by the air-gulping young man. “Let the sharks have ‘im,” he shouts and another round of cheers and flagon-bashing erupts. “We’re deeper and more complex than Depp’s portrayal would indicate,” the pirate they call “The Philosopher” says. He sits on a treasure chest and tugs lightly at his hoop earring with his right hand as he speaks. The Philosopher has been pirating for forty years, though lately he’s been relegated to spyglass duties and the occasional fuse-lighting. “Frankly, we pirates are victims of a history of stereotypical portrayal by Hollywood. I mean, look. The eye patch, the wooden leg, aargh this and aargh that, the parrot thing—that one really gets me. Do ya see any parrots aboard here today? And then Depp comes along and, sure, he’s pretty to look at. But suddenly he, Johnny Depp, is the iconic pirate. This skinny runt of a man, this rock star pirate. Now, if you say you’re a pirate, people say, Oh, like Johnny Depp! To which I say, No, no, a thousand times no.” Cheers erupt once again among the dozen pirates who have been listening closely, ears cocked, unpatched eyes bulging, to the Philosopher. “We’d ‘ave ‘im walk the plank, we would,” says Pegleg Stewart. “See what the sharks think of his “performance.” Overcome with joy at the image of Depp among the sharks, James “Fatboy” Jones sprays a mouthful of beer on his comrades, upon which three fellow pirates jump him and wrestle him to the deck. The Philosopher pulls out a knife and begins whittling, then pauses. “What Hollywood misses,” he begins, “is our depth. Fatboy, for example, has an abiding interest in Latin American literature, magical realism and that sort of thing. He’s written quite eloquently about the Colombian author Gabriel Garcia Marquez for a number of critical journals. And Pegleg himself has recently penned a scientific paper on the effects of climate change on the pirate’s profession. These subtleties were missed entirely by Mr. Depp.” The Philosopher completes his thought and leaps onto a nearby wooden keg. “Ain’t that right, boys!” he shouts to wild cheering. “He’ll be singing a different tune when we get a hold of ‘im,” shouts Pegleg. “Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” he spits. “We ain’t no Rollin’ Stones rock star pirates. We’re hard workin’ seamen.” “Bring ‘im aboard,” shouts the pirate they call Scalded Dog. “We’ll slice that pretty’s throat from ear to ear.”

March 21, 2012

@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }@font-face { font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; } Poetry has been afflicted with meaning for too long. Certainly, there have been stabs at meaninglessness—dada, language poetry, flarf—but without a sustaining podium, without a venue, these movements have flared and died like matches struck and cupped in the general dark of meaningfulness. But the podium has been awaiting us, brightly lit and stark. The elevators, supermarkets, and telephones-on-hold have been longing for our words to soothe and cajole just beneath the consciousness--and then evaporate like hand disinfectant. The venues have been lonely without us. They are calling out for a muttered voice, a semblance of speech that is not speech, an overheard tonal flow of language that does not chomp down on a story or theme and hold on, but one that drifts, that touches wordly things lightly and moves on, that hints at emotion but does not deliver it kicking and squirming, that employs the language of ideas but does not insist on a full induction into the detailed argument. It is time American poets answered the call. It is time American poets produced sonic texts, well-voiced, well-sounded, but without the dynamics of plot and theme, poems that can deliver a tone in a one floor hop from copier to office or a long, smooth ride of 50 floors from Lexus to penthouse. What is required is a stream of image and sound that can accompany a shopper from the cereal aisle to dairy to household products without interfering with his thoughts. Only one American poet has come close to producing such poetry, and that is Nash Johnsbury. Johnbsury’s A Flume is the single monument of Poezac or Elevator Poetry extant. Younger poets should study this work not for what it accomplishes, but for its brilliant refusals. Johnsbury’s avoidance of theme and story is, of course, well established. After flirting briefly with philosophical argument in Portrait of Eve in a Boutique Window, Johnsbury has pursued a vaguely troubled superficiality that suits the elevator perfectly. His avoidance of conclusion and closure, his natterings and digressions, his use of “the syntax of meaning” without any actual meaning, all provide a ground upon which a new generation can build a fully-realized Poezac. Much has been made lately of Federico Garcia Lorca’s notion of “duende.” American poets have clamored like pigs to the slop, trying to claim duende for their own work. Lorca, in his compelling, but ultimately misguided “Theory and Play of Duende,” claims that “The duende won’t appear if [the poet] can’t see the possibility of death, if he doesn’t know he can haunt death’s house.” Lorca’s continual pointing deathward is the opposite of Poezac, which seeks to deflect us from death and suffering and send us wholly into the distractions and episodes of shopping that constitute real life. In this passage from A Flume, Johnsbury masterfully counters duende with a vague nostalgia:To have been kissed once by someone—certainlyThere is some comfort in that, Even if we don’t know what led up to it,Or it happened too long ago to matter now.Like almost too much light and warmth or a surfeit of powdered,sugary things—who can complain?The syntax is vaguely Rilkean—thus giving it the frisson of serious poetry—but the attitude is insouciance, the ease with which loss can be borne if one recognizes that lovers are like products, and the next one promises to be more brilliantly packaged, new and improved, carrying perhaps a few more ounces for the same price—all in all, an equal or superior value. Played softly through a public address system, such work can be heartening, such work can serve society, can heal and distract and promote an immersion in life that can counter the deathward plod of much contemporary American poetry.Death to death! The time has come for Poezac, for Elevator Poetry.

Certainly, there have been stabs at meaninglessness—dada, language poetry, flarf—but without a sustaining podium, without a venue, these movements have flared and died like matches struck and cupped in the general dark of meaningfulness. But the podium has been awaiting us, brightly lit and stark. The elevators, supermarkets, and telephones-on-hold have been longing for our words to soothe and cajole just beneath the consciousness--and then evaporate like hand disinfectant. The venues have been lonely without us. They are calling out for a muttered voice, a semblance of speech that is not speech, an overheard tonal flow of language that does not chomp down on a story or theme and hold on, but one that drifts, that touches wordly things lightly and moves on, that hints at emotion but does not deliver it kicking and squirming, that employs the language of ideas but does not insist on a full induction into the detailed argument. It is time American poets answered the call. It is time American poets produced sonic texts, well-voiced, well-sounded, but without the dynamics of plot and theme, poems that can deliver a tone in a one floor hop from copier to office or a long, smooth ride of 100 floors from Lexus to penthouse.

What is required is a stream of image and sound that can accompany a shopper from the cereal aisle to dairy to household products without interfering with her thoughts. Only one American poet has come close to producing such poetry, and that is John Ashbery. Ashbery's A Wave is the single monument of Poezac or Elevator Poetry extant. Younger poets should study this work not for what it accomplishes, but for what it fails to accomplish. Ashbery's avoidance of theme and story is, of course, well established. After flirting briefly with argument in Self Portrait in a Convex Mirror, Ashbery has pursued a vaguely troubled superficiality that suits the elevator perfectly. His avoidance of conclusion and closure, his natterings and digressions, his use of what I would call "the syntax of meaning" without any actual meaning, all provide a ground upon which a new generation can build a fully-realized Poezac.

Much has been made lately of Federico Garcia Lorca's notion of "duende." American poets have clamored like pigs to the slop, trying to claim duende for their own work. Lorca, in his compelling, but ultimately misguided "Theory and Play of Duende," claims that "The duende won't appear if [the poet] can't see the possibility of death, if he doesn't know he can haunt death's house." Lorca's continual pointing deathward is the opposite of Poezac, which seeks to deflect us from death and suffering and send us wholly into the distractions and episodes of shopping that constitute real life. In this passage from A Wave, Ashbery masterfully counters duende with a vague nostalgia:

To have been loved once by someone—surely

There is a permanent good in that,

Even if we don't know all the circumstances

Or it happened too long ago to make any difference.

Like almost too much sunlight or an abundance of sweet-sticky,

Carmelized things—who can tell you it's wrong?

The syntax is Rilkean—thus giving it the frisson of serious poetry—but the attitude is insouciance, the ease with which loss can be borne if one recognizes that lovers are like products, and the next one promises to be more brilliantly packaged, new and improved, carrying perhaps a few more ounces for the same price—all in all, an equal or superior value. Played softly through a public address system, such work can be heartening, such work can serve society, can heal and distract and promote an immersion in life that can counter the deathward plod of much contemporary American poetry.

December 16, 2011

The Williams family’s Thanksgiving dinner was marred when Karl Williams, husband and father of two lovely daughters, ticked off the things he was thankful for and listed only one animate object, Charlie, his golden retriever, at number 7.

After his lovely and eloquent wife Giselle spoke movingly about how thankful she was for her husband’s warmth and understanding and for their two beautiful and intelligent daughters, Mr. Williams eagerly addressed the theme. After listing the new iPhone 4S, his iPad, his new cashmere metallic Lexis LS, his half-empty bottle of Laphroaig, his new calfskin driving gloves, and the 1951 Fender Stratocaster that he recently purchased on e-Bay, he turned to the smiling, expectant faces of his family, saying he was also thankful “for the love and affection of his best friend in the world, Charlie.”

In a brief statement to the press, Giselle and daughters, Fawn, 12, and Carly, 9, said only that “while they, too, appreciated Charlie’s presence in their family, they thought it appropriate to also be thankful for the sentient, two-legged members of the family, at least some of whom occasionally appear among the accoutrements and largely wireless electronics that occupy most of Mr. Williams’ time.”

In response, Mr. Williams asked Siri to text the family that he loved them.

August 8, 2011

do for you; ask what kind of crazy fucking you can do for your country."

PRESIDENT OBAMA TO AMERICA'S YOUTH: "LET'S GET FUCKING!"

"Yes, We Can Fuck Our Way to Prosperity!" Prez Exhorts Young People at Washington Rally

Reuters—In a surprise appearance at a youth rally on the Mall in Washington, President Obama drew a rousing ovation when he proposed a simple answer to America's Medicare and Social Security shortfalls.

"Look," he began, "we older folks have a little problem. It's a mathematical problem. America's population is aging rapidly, and there aren't enough workers to pay into Medicare and Social Security to keep them afloat. My Republican friends want to slash those programs, leaving many people without the means to carry on. But my economic team has been working hard to find a better solution. And I believe we have. But as with all difficult problems, the solution is going to involve some sacrifice."

The crowd of young people fidgeted at the mention of "sacrifice," boos and scattered, defiant shouts of "No!" rising from parts of the crowd.

"Now, now," the president continued. "Hear me out."

"I know you young folks love your Facebook and your Twitter and your Google +, your Spotify and Pandora and Photobucket and all that online stuff. And I know that many of you, when you're not twittering, are working hard in school, in internships, and some of you—a few of you—are even gainfully employed. But tonight I'm going to ask you to step away from your electronic devices and make some time for your country. Because, my friends, while you're twittering, America is burning. So it's time to do something for this great country. It's time to step away from all that busy-ness and get busy!"

The crowd, sullen and bored only a moment before, erupted into applause and cheers.

"My administration," the president continued to mounting cheers, "loves young people, but we need more of them. Millions more, and there's only one way to get that done, and that's to do it! So grab a couple of forties, drop some Barry White, or some Celine Dion for you white folks, and make your move. Copulate and populate! Fuck for FICA! Yes, we can, my friends. We can fuck our way to prosperity!"

The president's message was met with a rousing, sustained, standing ovation.